The Rolexxx Club - Anniversary Edition

by Meta Smith

  blow job or some ass that big of a deal.

  “Yeah, I mean it, but hear me out. I want you to be available to me at all times. I know you living with Ginger and everythang, but that’s gotta end. I want you to kick it here. But you can’t be throwing no monkey wrench in my shit. I got a wife, but she don’t come here much. If she does, she ain’t gonna say shit cuz she know how I do. I got a couple of other females. But if you play your cards right, you can be my bottom bitch,” Dan explained. “Consider it done,” Desiree answered. She felt a twinge of guilt, knowing she was going to just up and leave Ginger, but she was on some old bullshit anyway. As far as Desiree was concerned, Ginger was a big hypocrite, and who could trust a hypocrite? At least Dan was up-front about who he was and what he was about. She’d use him for all he was

  worth and then get rid of him. Pump and dump.

  “YOU’RE MAKING A HUGE MISTAKE, DESI! I WANT YOU TO

  really reconsider what you’re doing,” Ginger told Desiree as she loaded the last of her things into a large moving box.

  “Look, Ginger, I’ve got to do what’s best for me. I love you like a sister, and I appreciate all the things you’ve done for me, but I need to move on. You and I are never going to see eye-to-eye on this God business,” Desiree stated, devoid of emotion. It was all a front, though: moving out was killing her inside.

  “Don’t talk like that, Desi. You make it sound so petty by calling it ‘this God business.’ This is your soul we’re talking about,” Ginger pleaded. “Exactly! How many times do I have to go over this with you? It’s my soul. If I want it to burn in hell, then so be it.” Desiree crossed her arms.

  Ginger crossed herself and clutched a strand of rosary beads.

  “Desiree, go to school. You can stay here for free until you finish. Just stop the dancing and the dating and leave Dan alone. He’s a married man. He’s a pornographer. And before you cut me off telling me what kind of person I used to be, let me tell you that Jesus has wiped my slate clean. Maybe you can’t yet, but I know you know how much I love you. You want to rap? Fine, rap. But do things yourself. Put out your own CD. That’s how Dan got started. You don’t need him. You already have everything you need, and I guarantee you that if you ask God for the words, he’ll give you a positive, conscious message to spread through your music. You don’t have to settle for being Dirty Dan’s concubine. I’ll back you. I may not have Dan’s millions, but I have the money to do something.”

  “Look, Ginny; I appreciate the offer, and what you have to say. But you can’t force your religion on someone. God knows my heart just like he knows everyone else’s. When I’m ready to get religion, He’ll be the first to know, not you,” Desiree snapped. She carried the box out to the Mercedes C230 that Dan had “given” her, with Ginger on her heels.

  “I’m going to continue to pray for your redemption, Desi,” Ginger told her, arms akimbo, her head held dramatically toward the heavens.

  “Pray for your own redemption, Ginny. That’s what this is about. It’s all your past dirt coming to the surface to haunt you. You just can’t get clean, can you? For all the baptism and the washing of your sins in the blood of the lamb, you just don’t feel clean, do you?” Desiree monitored Ginger’s expression and realized she’d hit a nerve. She continued. “You want to pray for me, because you think that by bringing me to God, He’ll

  forgive you. It doesn’t work that way and you know it. You’ve got to make amends with God on your own.”

  “Desi, please...” Ginger’s eyes reflected not only sincerity but pain. Desiree couldn’t continue the tough-girl act. She felt her nose running as her eyes filled with tears. In an unexpected gesture she threw her arms around Ginger and held her tightly.

  “I love you, Ginny. You know I do. And I’m not trying to hurt you. But just like you had to find your own way, I have to find mine. Please try and understand. You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had,” Desiree sniffed.

  “Don’t leave. You don’t have to go through with this. I promise I’ll stop trying to force God on you,” Ginger pleaded.

  “We both know that’s not true. I believe that you really want to change your life. And I’ve got your back one hundred percent, even if I can’t do what you’re doing; even though I don’t really understand.” Desiree loosened her embrace to look Ginger in the eyes. “I left the phone number on your fridge. You can call me, you know.”

  “I will. Don’t you forget about me, you hear, nena? We’re hermanas para siempre. No man will come between us ever. And, Desi, know that if you ever need me, I don’t care when or why, I’m here for you; no questions asked, no I-told-you-so’s,” Ginger promised.

  Desiree wiped her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand and got into the car. She revved the engine and sped out of the driveway, partly because she knew that if she stayed any longer, she just might change her mind. Desiree didn’t know what was in store for her. All she knew was that now was not the time for sentiment. Life was tough, always had been; but when one door closed, another one always opened.

  PART 2

  POWER

  CHAPTER 11

  August 2001

  T

  HE MIAMI STREETS WERE SO HOT THAT VISIBLE HEAT waves rose from the asphalt like steam from a griddle. Desiree’s

  thin white wife beater was moist and slightly transparent from her perspiration, accentuating her full breasts. As she walked, she lifted her long hair on top of her head in an attempt to feel cooler, but it was futile. There was absolutely no breeze.

  Desiree frowned, thinking that she would look like a sweaty pig by the time she got to the music video casting. She’d only been outside for a short five minutes, as long as it took to walk from a parking lot two blocks over to the National Hotel on Collins. But the relentless Miami sun had already done its damage. Her long, curly hair felt frizzy and limp, and she was certain that her eye makeup was smeared halfway down her face. Not that it would matter. Desiree could have rolled out of bed and gone to the casting in her PJ s and still been the finest woman there.

  The record company holding the casting, Titanium Records, was the new shit bumpin’ out of car speakers and club systems all over North America. With over 10 million records sold in the label’s short history, it was quickly on its way to being an urban music legend. It burst onto the scene like a supernova, hitting the public with a banging album sprinkled with high-profile cameos, a glossy music video, and a fashion line all at once. Its star artist, Bentley, had a number 1 hit on the Billboard charts and

  was moving serious units, according to SoundScan.

  At twenty-four Bentley was the biggest thing in hip-hop. Reminiscent of L.L. back in the day, his pretty boy/thug image played well with TRL’s demographic as well as 106 & Park’s audience. He was most recently featured in People’s Hottest 25 stars under twenty-five, ranking at an astonishing number 3. Not bad for a guy from the projects whose album had only been out four months. Blacks, whites, Latinos—it didn’t matter. Everybody was feelin’ Bentley, especially Desiree. Ever since she’d seen him on the cover of XXL, she’d wanted him, and it was not like Desiree to get starstruck. She got over that shit long ago. She made it a rule not to date any more athletes or entertainers until she made it herself.

  Desiree was determined to set the music industry on fire. She made sure to spend at least a couple of hours a day writing and boning up on her freestyling skills. When she was with Dirty Dan, she’d written tons of lyrics and filled several notebooks with raps that she shared with him. She knew he liked her flow from his expression as he read her raps, and when she freestyled, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. And on more than one occasion he used some of her verses, chalking them up to coincidence when she confronted him. Every time she threatened to leave him, he’d promised her the sun, moon, and stars to lure her back in, but nothing of substance ever materialized. Sure, she appeared in some of his videos and did backup vocals on some of his tracks, but it became obvious that Dan’s idea of mak
ing her a star was limited to recording her moaning statements like “Fuck me in the ass really fast, Dirty Dan” and “Ooh, I like it doggy- style” on his tracks. Desiree learned that it wasn’t smart to shit where you ate; besides, artists rarely had any power to make real decisions anyway; they were all controlled by something or someone bigger, richer, and more powerful. Dating an entertainer seemed to be an exercise in futility. However, just looking at Bentley gave her a rush. He made her body feel flushed and hot. And now she was going to work with him if things went her way.

  Desiree headed straight for the bathroom as a blast of frigid air hit her upon entering the hotel lobby. The casting had only been in session for about an hour, but there were already what appeared to be over a hundred girls there spilling out of a conference room into the bar area.

  Even the restroom was crowded as Desiree made an attempt to freshen up. She splashed her face with cool water and gently patted it dry with a hard, crunchy paper towel. She used her fingers to wipe away the eyeliner that had slid from her amber-colored eyes, and then rummaged through her Louis Vuitton baguette for an eyeliner pencil and some MAC

  Lipglass. Desiree was fortunate that she didn’t really need makeup. Her large hazel eyes were framed by naturally long, dark, curly lashes, her honey-colored skin was smooth, even, and clear. Her full, pouty lips were such a deep pink that if she just slicked on some clear gloss, it looked as if she were wearing lipstick. Desiree finished up by putting her hands under the faucet, then running them through her hair. Just a bit of water was enough to banish the frizzies and re-activate her natural curls.

  Her wife-beater looked a little wrinkled, so she tied it tightly behind her back in a small knot, making her breasts look enormous and her tight waist even smaller. Desiree turned around to inspect her rear. Her Brazilian-cut jeans dipped dangerously low over her voluptuous ass. Desiree noticed that several of the models in the ladies’ lounge were staring at her. They recognized her from her other appearances in music videos, no doubt.

  Desiree was a ghetto superstar, or at least that was her rationale. Over the last two years she’d been in over twenty music videos for rappers and R&B singers. She had even made appearances in Kid Rock and Aerosmith videos. She couldn’t take all the credit; Dan had introduced her to her manager, and it was her appearance in the music video for his song “Doggy Style” that had first put her face out there. Now as the reigning queen of video, you couldn’t tune into BET or MTV without seeing her face. Desiree was in heavy rotation. And lately, Desiree had been getting more work that wasn’t video-related, like print ads for urban fashion lines, as well as a hair care ad.

  Desiree was smart, and made sure that the more visible she became, the more she charged. She wasn’t some cheap video ho, happy to be hobnobbing with the stars. This was a business! She’d met plenty of so- called celebrities in her days as an exotic dancer and during the year that she was with Dan. She considered herself to be on their level. She was a future star, not a groupie. Besides, she was a hustler. She knew the game. She commanded a day rate of two thousand dollars, and sometimes more if they were really big stars, while those cheap chicks were thinking they were doing the damn thang making two hundred a day if they were lucky. Strippers made more money than them! Desiree wasn’t a supermodel making ten grand a day, but she was a far cry from her humble beginnings, and definitely several steps above the other girls.

  Desiree found a way to flip whatever she made, and if she couldn’t flip it, she just stashed it. Now a frugal and savvy businesswoman, Desiree had managed to save a nice little piece of money, have all her bills paid for her, and live a lavish lifestyle by never breaking her cardinal rule learned from

  Dan: avoid spending your own money at all costs.

  Desiree never paid for anything if she could help it. She’d learned early on that was the way celebrities rolled. They walked around like the world owed them a favor; and they could afford to pay for anything, but they were always looking for the hookup. Desiree believed that the first steps to becoming a success were to look the part, walk the walk, and talk the talk. If she surrounded herself with successful people, acted like them, went where they went, and did what they did, she’d soon be where they were.

  She’d even acquired quite an impressive array of jewelry, ranging from custom-made pieces designed by Jacob the Jeweler of New York’s Diamond Quasar, to baubles from Tiffany and Cartier. Like Marilyn said, diamonds were a girl’s best friend. She also had a wardrobe of furs that she only wore when out of town, because it never got cold in Miami. Some of her gear and accessories she got from video sets, but most were gifts from her “friends,” the men she “dated” who helped to provide the lifestyle she had grown accustomed to.

  She peeped the other girls’ reactions before leaving. She adjusted her jewelry, a platinum cross, and positioned her hands so that they would catch the gleam of her platinum and pave diamond ring. She did it just for spite, so those females wouldn’t get it twisted and confuse her with one of them. Who did they think they were fooling with their rhinestones and Austrian crystals anyway?

  I got them bitches shook! she thought to herself, grinning. She knew the

  type of things they would probably say about her when she left. They’d call her stuck-up, or a ho and a slut, and yak about what they’d heard. But Desiree didn’t give a fuck. She knew they were just jealous and intimidated. They all wanted to be where she was. But if any of those girls had hopes of dethroning her, they were mistaken. She wasn’t just any bitch, she was that bitch.

  Desiree eyed a skank in a tight purple spandex getup with holes cut out down the sides. Some bitches just didn’t have a clue. She gave greetings to some of the other models she knew or had worked with before, but kept it light and casual. She wasn’t in the business to make friends. Hell, she wasn’t even there to make money. She was there to be a star! Every video was just another step closer to her ultimate goal.

  Desiree had a plan. She’d always had plans, but somehow they’d managed to go astray. But she was a smart girl who learned from her mistakes. Her setbacks had been the result of relying too heavily on the grace of others. She’d gone about finding fame and fortune the wrong

  way–waiting for some man to hook her up. Ginger had tried to warn her. Desiree had been too stubborn to listen, but no more. Men were okay to fuck to pay the bills and buy clothes and the like, but that was it. Real success was going to be the result of her talent.

  She was going to parlay her video success into a record deal of her own. She’d just finished a demo that she had actually paid for with her own money. That was an investment in herself that she wanted full control over. A&R reps from indie labels had heard it and offered her deals, but they were not what she was trying to hear. When she came out, she was coming out hard. She wasn’t going to be some puppet, or a backdrop to the niggas that had put her down with their label. She’d leave that to Vita and Charli Baltimore. Both girls were beautiful and had skills, but somehow hadn’t reached the level of success of some of their less talented male counterparts.

  She could keep on modeling if she wasn’t going to have any say-so about her career. She knew her product was hot. And once her demo landed in the right hands, she’d be on her way to platinum success. After she was established as a rapper, she planned on tackling movies. Maybe she’d even win an Oscar or something. She was just as pretty as Halle Berry or Salma Hayek. And she was damn sure sexier than Nicole Kidman! She looked at the wannabes. None of them were talking about anything but auditions and bookings and agents. None of them had shit but were busy trying to impress each other. They were all scratching to be cast, hoping to be seen. They were hungry, but not in the same sense as Desiree. They were all living from job to job, waiting tables or working some other job part-time to make ends meet. Desiree couldn’t understand

  how some girls who had so much potential were so stupid.

  Once at a casting she’d heard a hater saying she “wanted to make it, but she wasn’t
going to whore herself out doing it.” Desiree understood how the girl felt, but she also knew that she was trying to be slick because the girl looked at her when she made the comment. Desiree chose to ignore it. What did her and her friends think modeling was anyway? It was nothing more than legal prostitution. Their agents were the pimps, collecting the bread while the girl did all the work, claiming to be there to “protect” them and their interests. And like pimps, their agents had a ton of other bitches just like them. And as soon as they got too old or too fat, they got kicked to the curb, like raggedy, dried-up whores.

  Desiree hated cattle calls. There were just a bunch of girls, all waiting for the opportunity to shake their ass, all gossiping and sizing each other up, being phony as hell. Usually, she wouldn’t waste her time and would

  have her personal manager handle it. Unlike the majority of the girls, Desiree had a manager dedicated to helping her career, who hooked her up constantly with good-paying jobs and always as a lead or a feature.